


Incaensor

by cerulean_nightmare



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-19 03:39:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7343275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerulean_nightmare/pseuds/cerulean_nightmare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  Anders had always promised himself to never lay with a Templar, no matter how tempting the offer and the one proposing it was, but the man had already left a string of broken rules in his wake, so why should this be any different? Falling in love with a Templar, however, was completely out of the question and he was obviously barking <b>mad</b> to even think about such things - and yet there he was, completely smitten. <i>Void take him</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reminiscence

    Anders was very much used to getting into heaps of trouble with the Templars, antics ranging from seemingly harmless pranks to outright disobedience in form of numerous bard-worthy escape attempts, but this was something on a completely different level to anything else the mage’s sharp mind could have ever predicted or concocted. There were always new Templar recruits pouring into the Ferelden Circle of Magi for their ‘field’ training, all from various ages and walks of life, some more attractive than others but all certainly starved for attention, a little something that a few mages took keenly to exploiting in order to guarantee themselves a hassle-free existence. The blonde mage understood the reasoning behind it but couldn’t quite find it in himself to condone such behavior simply because every Templar in his eyes was more akin to a rabid Mabari than a human being, thus making his stomach churn at the thought of willingly giving himself to a dog wearing human skin. This being exactly why his current predicament would have risen more than a few eyebrows if anyone other than himself and the other more-than-willing participant got a whiff of the situation.   
  


    “I’m sorry I have never done this sort of thing before and I don’t want to hurt you, so if you could maybe give me a couple pointers I would really appreciate it.” There was that bashful smile again and he had found himself completely disarmed and dismantled, all well-practiced sarcastic responses dissipating almost immediately, leaving him not only breathless and consumed by desire, but also completely lost for words. A faint yet rapid thrum of the other’s beating heart was soothing and erotic in equal measure, for nothing separated the two yearning bodies other than the warm cloaks of their skin – he was nervous, Anders could feel the boy’s trembling digits trace the graceful line of his spine ever so softly, his own heart beating just as loud. Templars were always taught to hate mages, to fear them and not show them mercy, for they were all corrupt and eager to strike deals with the unclean inhabitants of the Fade, but this one, Maker’s breath, this one was so different. Strong, incredibly so, and built like a warrior lord in the erotic fiction Anders occasionally indulged when company was scarce and needs were dire, but warm to the touch and ever so welcoming, with a smile that instantly liquefied his bones and turned the mage into a helpless, yearning puddle. Void take the brat for all the sins he was too pure to commit.   
  


    “Well there really isn’t much to it – you just, you know, stick it in and voila!” Faint traces of humor laced with every syllable but his voice was low and he was trembling like a leaf caught in a raging hurricane, response prompting a quiet chuckle and a chaste kiss as Anders felt himself being lifted off the stone floor and propped against the wall, the sudden nature of its cold touch eliciting a quiet gasp from the mage. Legs snaked around the Templar’s waist in a form of a reflex, a well practiced motion that was now preformed more due to muscle memory than conscious thought, anticipation making him quiver in delight. He wanted it, he wanted **him** and each passing moment his cravings were not satisfied was pure agony. It was torture and Anders wanted to howl. Maker, _please_!   
  


    “If this hurts please let me know.” Warm breath spilled across a small yet very sensitive area of his neck and the mage moaned, quietly, hips buckling in silent invitation. Like a starved dog Anders was eager, more eager than he’d ever been and the other’s hands upon his stark naked behind were really not helping the situation.   
  


    “Maker’s breath, _just take me already_!” He hissed, panting, _writhing_ – and was instantly rewarded. Slowly, agonizingly so, he felt the other sheath himself inside and groaned a little louder than before, his hands gliding along the muscular chest of the Knight-Lieutenant in both awe and sudden giddiness, the prospect of being taken so brazenly by a potential enemy bringing fourth a wave of adrenaline that he rode out roughly, panting the Maker’s name in the most blasphemous of fashions.   
  


    There was gentleness in those iced optics as the Templar proceeded to conquer the mage as if he was the only one in the world he would have ever wanted and who is to say that such was not true? He was still relatively young and painfully naïve as spending years locked away in the Chantry did very little other than shelter the boy even more from the harsh realities of the outside world, but he did try. In a way Anders was thankful – the Chantry had failed to poison his mind, managing to not only preserve his virtue but also a sense of honor, and as for the former, well, the mage was going to take his sweet time claiming it as his own. Although, despite the soft, languid movements and the quiet whispers of the most sincere and intimate confessions Anders knew better than to assume that the man he was perched so comfortably atop was anything but dangerous. Being granted such a high title in the Templar order at such a young age was a rarity in itself and if the speculations of other mages were even slightly close to the truth then Ser _Knee-Deep-in-Anders_ has killed more blood mages than most Templars stationed in the Tower had seen in their lifetime. A shiver skittered down his spine at the thought of the man taking him with his sword pressed harshly against the pale skin of his throat, drawing a thin line of blood as he recited verses from the Chant of Light, his breathing ragged and voice low enough to make Anders’ knees shake with desire. _Maker he was certainly going to end up in the Void for this_.   
  


    Quiet murmuring. Some words, Orlesian no doubt, whispered into his ear as if a quiet melody, a beautiful litany that bound this fine creature to the mage with ties stronger than any Tevinter magic. This was the first time he’d felt so at peace at the Circle, so utterly content yet almost driven to the brink of madness by the slow pace and the quiet melody of a faint Orlesian accent that thickened with every roll of hips as the Templar continued to unravel at the seams.   
  


    “ _Mon amour_.” A quiet purr, soft and incredibly hot in his ear, sending a tremor down his spine as Anders moaned, a little louder than before, finding himself completely unguarded and uncaring whether someone, **anyone** , could hear him. He was charmed, completely and utterly so and there was absolutely nothing that he could now do to rectify it. Perhaps he didn’t even want to. “Maker’s breath, _I want you_!” _**Roman**_.


	2. Wandering Gaze

    Anders awoke, ragged breath hitching in the confinements of his pale throat. The dream was of the recurring sort and each time it happened the mage’s smallclothes were rendered completely useless by stains that had reminded him time and time again of what exactly he had left behind when he fled the Circle one final time. The quiet displeasure of Justice rumbled low somewhere at the back of his head but he had managed to successfully ignore the irate spirit, instead trying to focus on changing his overalls. Andraste’s tits he was completely parched - for both water and male company. What truly did not sit with him was that years later he still pined after an Orlesian born Templar of the Ferelden Circle, unable to forget the beautiful, honest man who looked at him with such longing it made his stomach twist and flutter and honestly Anders could not take it. Roman was a good man, painfully so, with a heart so big it could swallow the world and still have room left over, but he was a Templar and the mage had no right to have him. A man of faith, faith that oppressed people like Anders, left them rot in prisons shackled and abused – Justice roared loudly, a piercing, devastating sound that made the mage double over and grasp his head in pain. **No** , the spirit would never allow this and Anders shouldn’t either. Moreover when the man had the chance to escape with him, he instead chose to stay and serve the Order. 

    The memory of him waiting by lake Calenhad for hours and hours on end, peering into the early morning mist that gathered above the crystal clear water like a cloak, made his stomach churn. He was hopeful for far too long, but it was hardly a surprise that even someone who appeared to be so cardinally different to others of the same brand was, well, just the same as them. Truly, Anders had no chance from the very beginning. A deep breath was taken and then another as the mage proceeded to calm both himself and the spirit that dwelled within, hands still shaking from a sudden bout of anxiety as vivid memories came flooding in. 

* * *

    “Take this cat before I gut him!” There was a wounded roar and Anders, along with a handful of Mages and uninvolved Templars watched as Mr. Wiggums assaulted one of the older Templar’s sabatons. The cat urinated upon the shined to perfection metal with an expression of complete contentment and it made for one hell of a scene. A roar of laughter erupted from the blond mage as Anders leaned against a pillar, trying to stifle his snickering with the palm of his hand, eyes half lidded and alight with pure, unrefined amusement. _Good on you Mr. Wiggums, you good kitty you_! Unsure of how exactly to punish a cat but still thirsting for blood, the older Templar caught the sights of Anders’ shaking frame and realized there and then that in order to satisfy his cravings for revenge a mage, any mage, would do. It was just bad luck that the punishment was to be bestowed upon Anders. “You! You made him do this!” An accusing finger was pointed in the direction of the tittering mage but Anders simply continued to laugh, paying no mind to the man, so Ser Thomas did the only thing he could do in the given situation in order to save his face – he began to advance, gaze never leaving his victim. 

    Anders was thinking on his feet, laugher quickly extinguished in his belly once the look of utter hatred had registered upon the other man’s features. Being less than a meter away from the angry Templar and his rather unwelcoming sword made the mage only a little too eager to put a couple more paces in between their bodies, despite the brave façade and the daring curve of his lips that taunted, in silence, the furious man. “And here I was thinking that you were only cruel to mages! Branching out are we?” Acerbic, toxic words slithered from the tip of his silvered tongue without a trace of an apology. The man wasn’t looking for trouble per se, but it was also not in his nature to shy away from confrontations once they snowballed out of proportion. Which, in turn, put him into a lot of dangerous situations such as this one. 

    “I’m going to rip your arms out, mage!” A small crowd of curious onlookers was already gathering around the pair, Templars and mages alike, wondering just how exactly this confrontation was going to culminate. Anders felt small bolts of electricity run through the palms of his hands as magic stirred within him, almost begging to be released onto that bold, self-righteous head. No mage in the circle tower was ever permitted to harm a Templar, especially not with magic itself. It was an offense so grievous it brought fourth a trial-less and very much untimely death, so if Anders was to use force - 

    “That won’t be necessary Ser Thomas.” A faint purr of pure Orlesian broke the harrowing silence as a new armor-clad figure stepped in between Anders and his demise, shielding the mage from the burning gaze of the older Templar. “Cats are willful creatures - I doubt that even the First Enchanter could make this mouser do his bidding.” Thin layer of humor had peeled away from the spoken words as easily as flesh would peel from crumbling bone, scorched by the quiet thread that lingered amidst the two Templars still, as subtle as wisps of smoke upon a half burned photograph. The young man, Anders noted, must have been one of the new recruits as he had never laid his eyes upon the boy, but Andraste’s flaming ass was he attractive. Strong, chiseled jawline, high cheekbones, cerulean optics and sun-kissed flesh – the mage quickly caught himself staring at his rather timely rescuer and instead chose to focus on the older, still seething man. 

    “Do **not** test your luck recruit! You are a Templar, _boy_ , not a friend to these demon worshippers!” At such accusations Anders couldn’t help but roll his eyes and shake his head. This was absolutely ridiculous. Then again, the whole situation wasn’t exactly sane or normal by anybody’s standards and neither were the Templars that roamed this Circle Tower. Maker save them all from these entitled, overgrown children. 

    “We are not all demon worshippers you know, some of us also worship a stiff drink and attractive company.” That was most certainly true and not just for Anders. All sorts of pastimes were welcomed by the mages in the circle, most indulging blasphemous activities without a second thought in order to erase the harrowing reality that their existence alone was a cardinal, unforgivable sin in the eyes of the Maker. It was truly heartbreaking to observe young mages being told that they are nothing but walking abominations that were either facing a life of imprisonment in the circle or death, with a happy in between of the two extremities being the rite of Tranquility. Every time his thoughts steered towards the injustice of it all he could feel his blood boil. To be imprisoned for something that happened at birth as an accident was just cruel and unfair and if Anders had the means and the willpower to save the mages from the tyrannical rule of the Chantry, by Maker he would do it. 

    “And I am no recruit, although I’m very flattered that you think I look young enough to play the part.” The raven haired man chuckled quietly, enjoying the reaction his statement drew out from both the balding Templar and the mage who had spent the last minute or so eyeing him up in a rather conspicuous manner. Roman was perceived to be conventionally attractive, with broad shoulders, steeled muscles and a perfectly symmetrical face, but he had a temper more akin to a stormy sea and a gaze that could pierce through anyone with such a force it’d leave them stilled and eager to submit to the Templar’s every whim. To say that the man had a gravitational pull of his own was to grossly undermine the level of feral power he had not only possessed but also freely used to his advantage. Reveling in the suspenseful silence the man had then turned to face the mage he’d so recklessly jumped in to save, his features molding into a mask of light disapproval though a dim inkling of amusement remained, his grounding gaze settling upon the man and welding him to the floor. “Enough with the vivid images, mage, Ser Thomas is a true man of the Maker and cannot be subjected to filth.” 

    Such response disarmed Anders as the mage was hardly used to sharing playful banter with someone who’s sword was practically the same length as their whole body, nonetheless a brow was questioningly raised, almost taunting the Templar. “And what about you, Templar? Are _you_ not a man of the Maker?” Sparks of electricity were now completely gone and the man shook his hands in order to get rid of the warmth that spread upon the palms akin to a blooming flower. The sensation wasn’t painful yet but it would grow to become unbearable later, however such was not a concern for the mage in the meantime. 

    “I’m afraid that I’m not even a man.” Acidulous smile bared itself as he leered, a spark of amusement setting off a firestorm deep within the cold pools of color, a murky double meaning lurking deep within the hastily spoken words. A feral animal hiding within the confinements of human skin just like Anders had unwittingly predicted, but instead of distaste the notion of a camouflaged beast set his blood on fire and tightened a knot inside his abdomen, the sensation eliciting a quiet chocking sound from the mage. This was... **bad**. 

    “Knight-Lieutenant Vaillancourt, Ser, please, Knight-Commander Greagoir is demanding to see you!” A young Templar recruit practically flew into the common room, completely ignoring the tension that permeated the air. His eyes were wide with panic, brought fourth by Knight-Commander’s foul mood no doubt and Roman sighed, nodding in resigned agreement. Greagoir was not a man who tolerated insubordination and now, when the situation with blood mages became so dire that the man had asked the Chantry for Roman by name, the Templar couldn’t help but wonder just how much flack he was to endure for helping out this mage. In any case, such trivial matters had no weight currently because much worse repercussions were going to follow if he is to make the Knight-Commander wait any longer than he already has. Glancing at Ser Thomas and then halting his scrutinizing gaze on the mage, a quick order was barked and then the man departed, following the recruit out the double doors and then out of sight - “Behave.” 

    “Yes Ser!” A mock salute was given to the Templar’s departing silhouette as a response, but Anders was anything but confident as his knees trembled ever so slightly and his breath got caught inside his lungs. A Knight-Lieutenant of the Templar order had just rescued him from at least a month of isolation and here he was, checking out the lightly visible curve of his ass as the taller man turned the corner and disappeared out of sight. _Maker, please just save him from himself_. 

* * *

    Outside his box of a bedroom the underground clinic spun with commotion and, despite the painful throbbing in his temples, the mage was curious to figure out what exactly had caused such a buzz. Usually the early mornings in the clinic were serene and silent, his clientele neither awake nor available, so he dedicated such times to the continuation of his Manifesto, furiously scribbling upon the parchment with blotches of dark ink staining the tips of his fingers a deep indigo. Today, however, something was clearly amiss and the mage was determined to figure out what all of this commotion was about. Straightening his robes and fixing a couple of ruffled feathers Anders allowed a quiet sigh to fall past parted lips before pushing open the door into the clinic. 

    “Anders, good to see you!” Garrett was perched on the wall dangerously close to his door, his amused smile lighting a small fire under the mage’s skin, his cheeks flushing ever so slightly. He considered Hawke a good friend but could not deny that there were also... _deeper_ feelings involved in the matter. 

    “You too my friend.” It was a quiet greeting, a little choked in the end. Anders was only too painfully aware that Hawke was only interested in Isabela and the knowledge of such ate at him slowly every passing day. It was little things at first; a smile here and there, a few opinions of similar nature on the matter of mages and their respective treatment and it didn’t take long for Anders to plunge himself down another whirlpool of unneeded emotions like a beaten, love sick puppy. Maker save his soul, he didn’t even have time to shave these days, let alone act like a forlorn, forgotten lover. _It was madness_. 

    “Well then Blondie, who is the lucky lady?” At that he couldn’t help but raise a brow. “Varric, what lady?” Varric was a good man... _dwarf_...but sometimes he made very little sense. Upon studying his expression Isabela laughed and leant against the door, a little too close for his comfort. “You owe me ten silvers Varric.” Confusion still firmly planted upon the pale features Anders wondered, albeit briefly, just how long these three had been standing outside his door. Then, he went scarlet. 

    “I don’t know what any of you are insinuating.” The trio must have been waiting for him to awaken for quite some time now, judging by the amused looks and expectant poses and, in their waiting, they must have heard him... _moan_. Andraste’s flaming sword, how was that even fair?! Void take his damned soul. 

    “Oh, so no details? You’re no fun.” Isabela sighed in mock-disappointment before sauntering off towards Garrett and the eldest Hawke shook his head at her as if to tell her to stop dogging the poor mage. And, for that, Anders couldn’t help but be thankful. In a rather resentful manner with all things considered, but Hawke was a good friend to him and that mattered a lot more than the brightly lit torch that the healer was carrying for the attractive, broad shouldered rogue. “ _Anyway_ ,” Garrett pointedly accentuated, gaze still locked on Isabela in silent warning, before turning back to face the exhausted looking mage: “I need your help Anders.” 

    The silent promise of doing something other than healing countless unsightly ailments all day had the mage perk up slightly – last time Anders had physically left his clinic must have been at least a month ago, so without even knowing the premises of Hawke’s request it was still terribly appealing. “Sure Hawke, what do you need?” Little did he know that he’d soon come to regret this.


End file.
